


Pick Up

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Rated for Charles' pickup line and one additional dirty comment, Sloppy Charles, kloktober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26880247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: “Hey, Offdensen,” Nathan grunted. “You want anything else to drink?”Like water or something,he didn’t add, because his ‘worrying about other people’ muscles were pretty atrophied at this point in his life. Still, he thought about it.
Relationships: Nathan Explosion/Charles Foster Offdensen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 7 prompt, "Drunk or eating together." Unfortunately, Charles doesn't get to eat anything here. Set after the Easter egg scene where the band gets their manager sloppy as hell.

After the manager’s text joke bombed and no one would explain it to Murderface, who still insisted that he didn’t get it, it was time for another round of drinks. This required most of the band, as this bar didn’t have dedicated waiters and collectively Dethklok tended to order rounds in bulk, but Nathan hung back. Said manager was slumped half onto the table with his chin in his hands and his elbows propped on the table, glasses slightly askew, and missing his tie entirely. 

This was because earlier they’d been in a bar that did have waiters, and he’d tried his hands at lassoing a drink off a passing tray. He’d almost succeeded; he’d gotten the glass, at least. 

“Hey, Offdensen,” Nathan grunted. “You want anything else to drink?”  _ Like water or something _ , he didn’t add, because his ‘worrying about other people’ muscles were pretty atrophied at this point in his life. Still, he thought about it. 

Charles looked at him over the top of his drooping glasses. (Could he see without those, Nathan wondered, or was he blind as a bat and just sort of guessing about which direction to look? He  _ was _ slightly cross eyed.) “I have a drink.”

Nathan eyed the army of empty glasses at his elbow. “Uh yeah, no you don’t. Do you want a refill or not?”

This seemed to require a great deal of critical thought. Charles looked down, then up, then heaved himself upright and thumped the heels of his hands against his thighs. “Not. Alcohol is, ah, bad for my legs.” 

“O . . . kay,” Nathan said, because that was just a weird answer. Charles was kind of a weird dude in general—not in a bad way, just kind of annoying when he was hounding them to talk about business stuff. On some level Nathan understood that the guy was just looking out for them, and he appreciated that, even though that boring shit usually made him want to run screaming. “So you, uhhh, get leg cramps or something if you get too sloppy?” 

“Nooo, they don’t get cramps.” Charles grinned lopsidedly up at him. “They spread.”

Nathan was fairly drunk too, so it took him a moment to process that. When he did— _ hoo _ boy, their super straight laced manager was wasted. That was a really weird thing to realize about someone that usually (tried to) cut  _ them _ off when they were overdoing it. Would’ve saved them a lot of really terrible hangovers on the day of live performances if they’d ever once listened to him about that, too. . . . And man, from the looks of things, Charles was really going to regret waking up tomorrow. 

Then it dawned on Nathan that  _ straight  _ laced probably wasn’t the right phrase, because he was pretty sure that was a pickup line, and an impressively suggestive one at that. Was that why they’d never seen their manager loaded before?

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh. . . . Dude, you’re, uh. You’re pretty fucked up right now.” 

Charles nodded, still gazing up over his glasses, eyes unfocused and soft. “Yes. Perhaps you should do something to take advantage of that.”

There were no lines on his face, Nathan realized, maybe because he likely couldn’t feel it anymore with the amount of alcohol they’d poured into him. He was completely relaxed. It made him look a lot younger and . . . more approachable.  _ Definitely _ less of a robot. A guy you could hang out and have a beer with, and not just because they’d literally all been drinking together for the last several hours. 

Nathan felt heat rising to his face and decided to blame it entirely on said drinking, and not at all on Charles being wasted and hitting on him out of nowhere. Nope, that part he decided to ignore on the grounds that it was a whole big weird can of worms that he didn’t have the brainpower to deal with right now—or possibly ever. 

“I think you need some water,” he said finally, aware that he’d taken a weirdly long pause before answering. 

“Good idea,” Charles agreed, punctuating each syllable with a rap on the sticky tabletop. Then he planted both hands on it and lurched unsteadily to his feet. “Water and fresh air, let’s go. Let’s get this show on the move-on.”

“That’s . . . not how it goes, but okay,” Nathan muttered. He wasn’t at all surprised when Charles took a couple steps like a newborn giraffe and then crashed into him, so he held the guy more or less upright while they made their way towards the bar. All of Dethklok forgot how to walk properly often enough that Nathan pretty much knew the drill inside and out. The whole getting water part would’ve been going above and beyond for a bandmate, though. 

But Charles wasn’t a bandmate, and they’d talked him into this anyway, so whatever. It was in everyone’s best interest to make sure he didn’t fall, hit his head, pass out, and choke to death on his own vomit somewhere. 

Up at the bar, he didn’t see the rest of the guys. Any or all of them might’ve left, or gotten their drinks and gotten a new table because they’d forgotten where the first one was, or wandered off to take a piss somewhere. Well, fine, they could take care of themselves. “Gimme two beers and a bottled water,” he barked at the bartender, who scrambled to set down whatever other drinks he was working on to get Dethklok frontman Nathan Explosion his order. It was all on a tab; bars contacted Offdensen after the fact for compensation, if they knew what was good for them. 

He was about to ask Charles if he wanted any bar peanuts or something, get some food in there to try and soak up some of the booze, but the bartender was handing him three things to carry and Charles was half falling over, half trying to tug him towards the door. Nathan huffed and went with the tugging. Their exit was more like a controlled fall with juggling, but he managed to steer the other man to the nearest patch of wall not occupied by windows or dumpsters and propped him against it. 

“Here,” he grunted, shoving the bottle of water into Charles’ hands and . . . realizing that his beers still had the caps on. Dammit. 

Before he could contemplate just opening it with his teeth, Charles saw his frustration and held out his water. “Trade.”

“What? No, this is for me.”

“Nooo, I can, ah, I can open it. Here.” He made a surprisingly accurate swipe for the bottle, snagged it, tucked his water under one arm, and pulled a ballpoint pen from a jacket pocket. Nathan couldn’t see what he did next, it was too fast and complicated, but he heard two small pops and then Charles handed him back the open beer. “See?” Charles said smugly. “Opened it.”

The pen did not work so well on the plastic cap of his bottled water, however, and after a moment Nathan reached over and just twisted the damn thing off for him.

It was a warm night, for October. Nathan relished the cold beer as he drank it down in one go, nice and easy. Things didn’t go as smoothly for Charles, who drank the first third of his water so messily so the water sloped down the front of his wrinkled button-down and suit jacket lapels, but he didn’t seem to mind. When Nathan tossed his first bottle to shatter harmlessly out of their way, Charles gamely took the second and performed his pen trick again, trying to show Nathan how it worked[1] but still doing it too fast to really follow. 

“I’ll just have to be your bottle opener then,” Charles told him. “Can’t replace me and not be able to drink beer.” He paused, then added, “I’d kill to stay with you guys, you know that right?”

“Sure, man.”

“Because I have.”

“Uhhh. . . .” Nathan didn’t know how he was supposed to react to that, but it was pretty metal the way Charles said it, dead serious and with a dangerous glint in his eye that made the statement really, really believable. This was yet another side of the manager that Nathan had never seen before, and he was starting to seriously wonder how many of those there were. “Okay.” 

Had Charles actually killed people? Had . . . had he done it with a pen? It would be brutal either way. Nathan could very nearly picture it, with this relaxed, less stuffy version of him right there and staring with an honest to fuck  _ emotion _ on his face. 

“I’d do a lot of things,” Charges continued, “to make sure you keep me around.” 

The way he said it, while  _ staring _ like that, like there was something fascinating somewhere on Nathan’s face that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from, made Nathan simultaneously curious and too self-conscious to ask what he meant. But it didn’t matter, because half a second later Charles was kissing him. 

Kissing him, like,  _ I want to be kissing you as soon as possible, no, sooner _ kissing, with big handfuls of black t-shirt clenched tightly in both fists to keep himself upright, and wow, Nathan thought again, this guy was drunk off his ass. Could barely stand up, tasted like beer and brandy and that plasticky aftertaste that bottled water sometimes had, but was still managing to deliver one hell of a kiss and—yeah, and that was his leg sliding between Nathan’s. Being reasonably drunk himself, Nathan had forgotten his earlier assessment that Sloppy Charles was also Horny Charles. 

He sure as shit remembered it now. 

Between being caught off guard and Charles’ imperfect balance, Nathan was nearly dragged into squishing him against the wall. He turned his shoulder into it instinctively, and maybe Charles helped just a bit, and ended up with his back against the rough bricks and an amorous lawyer pressing against him. The kiss continued, and Nathan was kind of reminded of when he’d been a teenager and kissed someone who actually, you know, knew what they were doing for the first time—a senior cheerleader, right after he’d made the varsity team. She’d been wasted too, but not so much that it had been weird after.  _ This _ would be weird after . . . but for some reason, maybe the booze or maybe weird nostalgia, it wasn’t totally weird in the moment. 

Well, no, it was weird, but not bad weird. Not get-the-fuck-off-me-what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you-man weird. He’d actually started to return the kiss out of reflex, though he stopped as soon as he noticed he was doing it and the hesitation made Charles pull back and look at him questioningly with his slightly unfocused eyes. 

“I want you to know,” Charles said, far more calmly and enunciated than anyone practically panting like that had any right to be, “that, if you were amenable to the idea, I’d really like to suck you off right now. But I, ah, think I’m about to be sick, so perhaps not.”

Nathan blinked stupidly down at the man. Amenable?  _ Suck you off? _ About to be sick, so  _ perhaps _ not? 

“I should probably call a car,” Charles added, then let go of Nathan’s t-shirt and stumbled a step or two away to brace himself against the dumpster and start hurling into the cracked pavement. 

In all the excitement, the water bottle had been dropped; Nathan could feel a dampness from the splash of it soaking into one side of his jeans. He’d managed to keep hold of his beer though, which he swigged from to keep from smelling and imitating what was happening while Charles clutched the dumpster with one hand to stay upright, other hand on his knee to keep from pitching forward as he leaned. 

When he ran out of beer he asked, “You, uh. You okay over there?” The words were spoken while looking down at his boots, grimacing a little with the effort of  _ not _ thinking about the fact his lips were sore. Which didn’t help. “Not puking blood or anything, are you?”

Charles heaved a gargle that might’ve been a laugh under different circumstances, but continued puking. He did seem to be slowing down, though. It was mostly liquid. 

That was gross enough to send Nathan back into the bar, where he clunked his empty bottle down on the bar top and asked for more water. “A  _ lot _ of water.”

“A pitcher?” the bartender asked nervously. “With ice?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. And a bunch of towels.” Nathan growled when he saw the bartender reach for a bucket of damn, wrinkled rags. “ _ Clean _ ones.”

He didn’t know why that pissed him off so much. It wouldn’t have made much difference, the rags were soaked in disinfectant and wouldn’t smell any worse than not wiping up at all—he knew that from plenty of personal experience. Charles was probably too out of it to notice or care, and by tomorrow it wouldn’t matter anyway. But who was this asshole to try and give the manager, lawyer, and CFO of the entire goddamned Dethklok empire gross towels to wipe the vomit off his face with? Didn’t this asshole know who they  _ were _ ?

This was absolutely not because Nathan felt suddenly protective. It totally had nothing to do with the fact that Offdensen had kissed him good faith, and that was pretty fucking gay, yeah, but whatever, he was drunk off his ass and that was kinda the whole band’s fault more than his own, so it would be a dick move not to just forget about it and let everything go back to normal afterwards. 

He stomped back outside with the pitcher in one hand, a stack of two glasses in the other, and clean, dry towels thrown over his arm. Charles had finished emptying his stomach and was sitting on a nearby concrete car stop. He looked up as Nathan approached, reaching wearily to take a towel as soon as Nathan offered him one. 

“I don’t feel well,” he announced, swiping the cloth clumsily over his face and neck. Some of the usual worry lines had started to creep back onto his face. That struck Nathan as kind of a shame. . . . Maybe he should’ve got more drinks, too, so they could keep the party going and give the guy a little more time of being totally relaxed. 

_ Why, so he could hit on you some more? _ another, more insidious thought asked.  _ Maybe bring up that thing he was talking about before he puked again? ‘Cause getting sucked off by a guy doesn’t make  _ you _ gay. He’s a good kisser, it’d probably be a pretty good time. And it’s pretty flattering, being such a hot manly man that even your surprise-secretly-gay manager who has a hell of a lot to lose can’t help himself, huh? _

Nathan didn’t look at Charles while shoving the first glass of water in his face. “Here, rinse the puke off your shirt. I’m not riding back in the same car as you if you reek.”

“Eureka,” Charles mumbled as he took it, in a subdued sort of way. 

“No I don't,” Nathan snapped. It wasn’t until Charles laughed that he realized it had been some sort of joke, so he gave Charles the second glass of water to drink to shut him up. Fucking lawyers and their . . . words, and their drunk-laughs that sounded unexpectedly clear and happy. 

They did ride back to Mordhaus in the same car. Charles had the Klokateers helpline set as number six in his Favorites list, and once dialed a vehicle appeared in a matter of moments. The first five were the members of Dethklok, with Nathan at the top of the list. 

Nathan sat in the comfy back seat of the dethlimo, sans seatbelt because safety wasn’t metal, with his manager who he’d buckled in next to him, passed out and head lolling onto Nathan’s shoulder. The suit jacket had been discarded in the bar dumpster as a total loss, and from this angle he could see Charles’ once-white shirt was flat out missing the first two buttons. How had that happened? He didn’t—absolutely did not, in any way—eye the skin of the man’s exposed neck and parts of his collarbones with guarded curiosity, just to see if said neck and collarbones were particularly interesting. In the end he decided that they weren’t, but it took most of the drive to reach that conclusion. 

For better or for worse, he knew he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to forget all this by tomorrow, and he was tired. Stupid rest of the guys taking off and leaving him to look after their manager. But, whatever. 

Time to just . . . go home, go to sleep, and pretend none of this ever happened. 

* * *

1[How to open a bottle with a pen.](https://youtu.be/gnOnQF91gVs) Return to text


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 20 prompt, "Partying or working." Charles said work, Nathan said party, and they did not agree to disagree.

In the activity and din of the industry party, Charles had carved out a small space behind a pillar to speak with some of the guests privately. Venue talk, for the most part, getting a few things hashed out for the upcoming tour. He was getting quite a bit of work taken care of until a large hand landed heavily on his shoulder and yanked him back out into the crowd. 

“Hey,” Nathan said, leaning quite close in order to be heard over the ambient noise, “what are you doing?”

“I was, ah—”

“It’s a party,” Nathan interrupted. “You can’t work at a party! Here.” He grabbed a couple of drinks from a passing tray and shoved one into his manager’s hand. “Now drink up, you’ve got some catching up to do. You gotta have more fun!”

The lead singer glared at him impatiently until he took a sip, then nodded, clapped Charles on the shoulder, and immediately seemed to lose interest. “Cool. Good. No more working. . . . Bye.”

Watching him disappear back into the throng, Charles allowed himself a second, puzzled sip of . . . tasted like a vodka cranberry, ugh. How gauche. He deposited it on another passing tray and returned to his corner. 

“Pardon the interruption. As I was saying. . . .”

* * *

It took a little over an hour, but eventually Nathan’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder again, squeezing as he was pulled back out. There was a hint of a threat in the way Nathan’s blunt, black-painted fingernails dug into the fabric of his suit. 

“Hey,” the man growled in his face. “What did I say?”

“To drink up,” Charles managed flatly. On one hand, he wasn’t intimidated by the threat, knowing full well that despite Nathan’s size advantage and capacity for brute strength, he could easily  _ incapacitate  _ him if it came to that. But on the other. . . .

Their noses were almost touching. He could taste Nathan’s breath. It was unsettlingly intimate, and he hadn’t had much of that from any source in years. To get it from Nathan, of all people, was a colossal fucking tease, thanks to a lot of thoughts that he had carefully not thought . . . in years. 

“No, I said no working.” Again, Nathan shoved a drink into his hand. “But you’d better fucking do both.”

“ _ Fine _ .” It was no struggle to show annoyance; Charles had plenty of that in him too. He’d only been trying to do his goddamn job, after all. Save himself a few sleepless all-nighters in the coming week to do the same things he was accomplishing tonight in a few short hours, with everyone he needed to talk to in the same place at the same time. There was no call for Nathan to seem so  _ angry _ that he was working during an event; it was what he always did. 

Charles tried his new drink and grimaced. This one tasted like some abomination of a mai tai—even the vodka cranberry would be preferable. Who the hell at the label had been in charge of planning the drinks for this?

He swallowed. “There. I’m drinking.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he let go of his shoulder. “Yeah. But if I leave you’re just going to go back to what you were doing again, so, uh. Come sit with me and Pickles at the bar.”

Part of why Charles hadn’t intended on drinking tonight was because of the night he’d spent getting sloppy with the boys a few months ago. He couldn’t even  _ remember _ most of that evening, beyond the vague impression that he’d drunk a lot, and then thrown up a lot. Had something happened that night to inspire this . . . bizarre blend of antagonism and wanting him to ‘have fun’?

He kept trying to remember as Nathan herded him towards the bar like an overgrown sheepdog, but still came up blank. 

Well. If he was going to be condemned to drinking for the evening, at least at the bar he would be able to order a better drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, I don’t like this ending, and you can’t make me, and I’m probably gonna circle back around and write more of it at some point. I have accidentally set up a slow burn premise that I cannot bear not following to its happiest conclusion.


End file.
